


Endless Eternity

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humans vs Angels, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Reincarnation, it says MCD but not really i promise it’s fine, more like harufuyu vs natsuaki tho, sousei no aquarion au except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29858187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Twelve thousand years ago, Omi sheds his wings for a human and fights the fate Tsuzuru wrote for him.Twelve thousand years later, Tsuzuru’s startled awake by the wrench of longing, of a memory too-far gone by now, of a too-strong presence that pulls on his very existence, somewhere.(or: Cherry-picking concepts from Aquarion and turning it into OmiTsuzu Angels AU)
Relationships: Fushimi Omi/Minagi Tsuzuru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Endless Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Before you proceed:
> 
> 1\. I know, I fucking hate the title too but this is why I’m not an actual writer.  
> 2\. This is rushed power-writing. In that I thought about it at 2 am, maniacally cackled as I began writing it intending to just shitpost on Twitter, stopped at 5 am because I had work in the morning, worked until 8 PM, then threw myself into finishing this until 1:30 AM. Expect the pace of the story to feel like drinking fifty of those extra caffeine Pepsi shot and then go on a roller coaster ride aka you might puke afterwards.  
> 3\. I did not think. I did not know where I wanted to go with this. What the fuck is plot. I just winged it and it is now somehow finished so whatfuckingever I’m gonna let it loose because it’s terrible.  
> 4\. I’m just cherry-picking some concepts from Sousei no Aquarion and threw them together into a pretty much new setting so don’t worry if you didn’t watch Aquarion. On the other hand, if you are a fan of Aquarion, I’m sorry I butchered stuff.
> 
> Consider you have been warned.

Twelve thousand years ago, Omi sheds his wings for a human and fights the fate Tsuzuru wrote for him.

Life is but a stage. As the Angel of Destiny, Tsuzuru understands that. His fingertips feel the threads of fate simmering under the Tree of Life, and he sees Omi’s back, twelve thousand years later—strong and unwavering in his conviction, and Tsuzuru makes the decision.

“I hope this is for revenge,” Chikage tells him just before Tsuzuru lowers himself into the icy casket. There is still that quiet anger beneath Chikage’s gaze that chills him more than the spell of sleep that tugs on his being. Above them, the Tree of Life slowly weeps its life away; golden leaves turning white before they fall like snowflakes to the ground. “If he hadn’t fallen in love with that human—“

“I wonder,” Tsuzuru murmurs, and behind Chikage, Masumi clicks his tongue.

“He betrayed us. Shed his wings for a human and fought us, even though he knew the Tree is dying.” Masumi’s eyes meets Tsuzuru’s. “He left you. Defied what you wrote for him and chose a human.”

 _I know_ , Tsuzuru thinks, but does not say anything. Instead he closes his eyes and accepts the spell that’s been skittering the edge of his very being, and falls to sleep.

**——-o0o——-**

Twelve thousand years later, Tsuzuru’s startled awake by the wrench of longing, of a memory too-far gone by now, of a too-strong presence that pulls at his very existence, somewhere.

“He’s back,” Tsuzuru says, even as his eyes flutters open. It’s Itaru who sits by his casket, staring unblinkingly at the device floating in front of him—familiar lines and dots that chase one another like a game of tag on its screen. Tsuzuru shakes the last of the spell clinging to his being, tries to quell the headiness just from the knowledge that Omi now exists in this world, again—and that’s when Itaru finally says, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Tsuzuru says, and notices that the device screen is now bigger. It’s switched to an actual footage of the battle now: humans, defiantly fighting the lesser angels, bodies and wings alike burnt to a hill of ash, and atop them, a familiar figure stands tall among humans.

His throat constricts with both happiness and disappointment. “He’s back.”

“Reincarnated into a human, given that he shed his wings,” Itaru sighs. “Not that he’s any less powerful. The Tree won’t survive long at this rate—we need to feed it humans or it’ll die. Good timing as any for that revenge of yours.”

Revenge. Of course.

“I want to see him first,” Tsuzuru says.

**——-o0o——-**

Hisoka lets him watch the latest battle and with it, Tsuzuru’s last hope sinks.

That person is there, too. He turns to the name _Juuza_ now, no longer _Nachi_ , but the soul is the same. With hair no longer blazing with the color of gold, but still standing steadfastly next to Omi like nothing’s changed in the past twelve thousand years. Still wielding his guns as if they’re extensions of his hands, defiant and almost breathtakingly straightforward as he annihilates the winged beings in front of him. Tsuzuru wonders if, perhaps, this is why Omi turned away from him, if this is why Omi fell in love.

If this is why Omi left him.

**——-o0o——-**

Tsuzuru gets to work.

He immerses himself in the threads, feels the words in each one and weaves them together into fate—a long, winding tapestry that speaks of destiny for all beings. He writes epics for humans and angels alike, twists the threads in such a way so that humans can’t win, can’t destroy the Winged Ones any further, can’t kill the Tree any further. 

And he watches it change, small knots of thread here and there unfurling into a completely new sentence, changing the story bit by bit as Free Will works its inevitable magic. _How powerless,_ Tsuzuru thinks as he stares at his hands, _how laughable._ Such careful work, and it ends in futility because he can’t stop it from changing.

“Ah, but to each their limits,” Homare hums happily as he takes another tapestry from Tsuzuru. “It’s enough, Tsuzuru-kun, for you to set the grand stage for us! After all, we’re the actors, and it falls to us to put on a magnificent play! Revenge and tragedy make for a beautiful ending, if I remember correctly!”

Homare disappears with a shower of feathers among the white leaves as the Tree of Life continues to weep. Tsuzuru dips his feet into the lake beneath the Tree and waits.

**——-o0o——-**

After a particularly grueling battle that ends with the angels bringing back not nearly enough humans to feed the Tree with, Tsuzuru sits with Tasuku by the casket and realizes: Juuza doesn’t remember.

“None of them remembers,” Tasuku frowns at him, like he’s forgetting the most basic knowledge of the world. “They’re humans. They don’t have wings to retain their memories.”

Tsuzuru wonders what happens with the wings Omi had shed.

**——-o0o——-**

Twelve thousand years prior, Tsuzuru presses the tip of a knife against Omi’s cheek and begs, “if you come back, we will let him go.”

There’s something exceedingly beautiful in the way Omi’s pinned to the wall by his massive wings, in the way his shoulders never slouch even as he stares at Tsuzuru, eyes sad. “I can’t.”

Behind Tsuzuru, a voice, hoarse and cracked with excessive use, shouts “Let him go!” in boiling anger, only to have the last syllable cut in pain as Guy’s pointy heel digs into the person’s back. The mask of calm on Omi’s face cracks. “Nachi!”

“His life in exchange for you,” Guy states, looking straight at Omi. Omi grits his teeth, but doesn’t answer.

Next to him, Citron sighs heavily. “Is this what they meant when they say love is blind?”

Guy tilts his head. “Is that so?”

“Don’t be dumb,” Masumi huffs, eyes finding Tsuzuru’s. “If this guy isn’t a good enough bargaining chip, we have no use for him.”

Tsuzuru lowers the knife in his hands, expression pained. “I didn’t want to do this,” he whispers, and it’s unfair, really, the way his heart shatter when Omi strains against the bind pinning his wings, when Omi calls his name to beg for another’s life, the way his breath shakes as he turns away from Omi to the person who’d stolen him away.

Hair as bright as molten gold and eyes as defiant as fire. Tsuzuru sees the beauty. Sees everything of this man that he is not as he raises the knife, and thinks, _I won’t give him to you_.

He brings the knife down sharply.

It sinks into flesh, embeds itself deep and spill blood like a river of rose petals along with the excruciating scream of pain.

Not Nachi’s.

Omi’s.

Omi, with an arm around Nachi and a knife embedded on his back—his bare back, free of the massive pair of wings that would have drowned the world if expanded fully—and Tsuzuru steps back, eyes wide in horror and disbelief.

“For him—“ he chokes, tears falling before he even recognizes them welling up in his eyes. “You shed your wings for him?!”

Omi looks up, gaze locked with Tsuzuru’s own, and says, “Tsuzuru.”

The syllables are shaky. It reminds him of eight thousand years ago—his name whispered like a prayer under the echoes of the great whales crying as they pass above him and Omi, fingers entwined and bodies cradled by the ocean. And it hurts, it hurts because Omi had just shed his wings, given up their memories and lives together to protect the human in his arm now and—

“Tsuzuru—!“ Citron calls, but it’s too late.

The Tree of Life, always most protective of its Angel of Destiny, howls and suddenly everything’s engulfed in a violent sweep of the storm crashing on them—bringing forth destruction in a single breath and tearing him away from the betrayal that split his heart open.

And then the final war begins. An avalanche with no winner. The humans barely survive by activating the great dimensional gate that keeps angels from coming down to earth and harvest humans to feed the Tree with for the next twelve thousand years. At the cost of so many lives.

At the cost of Omi’s life.

**——-o0o——-**

The next time Tsuzuru hears Omi calls him is on the battlefield, twelve thousand years later.

He’s flanked by both Guy and Chikage, with Sakuya half-hidden behind him as they stand on top of what used to be the research facility once holding one of Omi’s feathers. Tsuzuru has it in his hands, now, and he aches with how warm the memory stored in the feather: Omi’s fingers buried in the threads of fate as Tsuzuru tirelessly weaves them together, arms secured firmly around Tsuzuru as the Tree sings happily above their heads.

Omi has three people with him, too. Someone with hair the same shade of the sand—Banri, Tsuzuru recalls—and a younger boy whose name is the same as the Earth and hair the color of both flames and fresh coals. The other, steadfast on Omi’s side, is Juuza—strands the color of midnight instead of molten gold, and yet never strays far from Omi.

“Give it back,” Omi says. Commands, really, though his voice is tight even as his hand outstretches clearly for the feather, and Tsuzuru barks a bitter laugh.

“Why would I?” he doesn’t look at Omi. He looks at Juuza instead, holds his gaze, and snaps his fingers. The feather disappears into the spark of flame he summons. “None of you deserves this memory.”

**——-o0o——-**

He’s not surprised that Omi remembers. Omi was a powerful angel after all—it makes sense that he would be able to retain his memories even though he’s reborn without his wings. He’s just not sure why Omi is hunting his own feathers to make humans remember who they were, and he tells Tsumugi as much.

“I wish I have the answer,” Tsumugi sighs, closing the Book of Universe and sending it back to the top of the shelf. “Maybe I would have, if I understood him better. But as kind as Omi-kun was, and as readily as he did accept everyone around him, there was always this side of him that I felt was very removed from us. Like he’d wanted to go somewhere we can’t follow.”

Tsuzuru stares at the his reflection on the lake’s surface, eyes following the distorted lines as the water sways. “Do you think that’s why he fell in love with that human?”

Tsumugi hums, thoughtful. “Did he say he fell in love, back then?”

Omi never did. But it was so clear and obvious, not just to Tsuzuru, but to everyone else. After all, what other feelings can be as powerful as love, to have forced Omi to shed his wings?

**——-o0o——-**

Sakuya manages to harvest one of Omi’s close confidants for the Tree. _Kazunari_ , the Tree sings the name at him as it cradles the body within its branch, leaving only the face for Tsuzuru to see. He places a hand against the young man’s cheek—an expression frozen in a scream, and yet frustratingly no fear reflected in his eyes. 

The word _revenge_ comes so maliciously into his mind, and he reaches for the threads of fate to weave a new destiny. One that would wake up this young man long enough to hurt those who love him. One that would leave a scar in Omi’s heart, because if Tsuzuru can’t have it, then surely he’s allowed to leave his mark on it?

Free Will, like the bitch that it is, unravels the end of the tapestry like old fabrics even as Kazunari wakes up, frantically fighting off the mind trance while Tsuzuru tries his best to close the end of the tapestry. He sends it to Azuma, who takes it and floats up to take Kazunari along with him, but as Tsuzuru takes more threads to weave a new tapestry, he hears Kazunari shouts, “Please, you misunderstand!”

Tsuzuru pauses. Turns around to see the pained green eyes—still frustratingly void of fear and instead burns with determination now—and Azuma softly sighs, crooking a finger to tug Kazunari along again. The young man’s body jerks once again towards Azuma, unseen strings dragging his limbs backwards, but he fights it nonetheless.

“No, please! The Tree is not absolute, none of us needs it like it is now, it no longer serves any purpose! We can all be free—“

 _Nonsense_ , the Tree trills again, and Azuma snaps his wrist, locking the mind trance into effect, and Tsuzuru watches as green eyes turn dull and obedient. Kazunari shuffles after Azuma like a perfect puppet on strings, and Azuma waves at Tsuzuru with a smile before they both disappear.

No need for the Tree, the human says. Tsuzuru sighs. 

How very arrogant.

**——-o0o——-**

Twenty eight thousand and five hundred years ago, Omi curls his body around Tsuzuru as he laces their fingers together, tracing the calluses and the faint scars peppering Tsuzuru’s hands, and murmurs at a particularly fresh one, “There’s been more of these.”

Tsuzuru burrows into the cocoon of Omi’s arms. “You know sometimes threads cut.” Not everyone’s fate is smooth and pretty hangs in the air, in-between the curtain of the purple flowers hanging heavily down one branch of the Tree. Omi stays silent as he stares at Tsuzuru’s palm, as if he could read each scar and the thread behind them if he tries hard enough.

“It’s not that bad, honestly,” Tsuzuru tries, because he knows Omi worries, knows Omi resents that the Tree keeps Tsuzuru close most of the time to keep weaving destiny, even if Free Will fucks them up again in the end anyway no matter how hard and secure Tsuzuru tries to wind the tapestry back. “Most humans don’t have that strong of a Free Will, and our kind don’t bother following it at all, so there’s only very few?”

Omi sighs. “It’s still far too many.”

Tsuzuru frowns up at him. “You sound restless.”

Omi offers a smile and presses his lips against Tsuzuru’s own. Tsuzuru lets himself be pushed down to the bed of flowers, watches as Omi’s wings unfurl and curves into a dome above them—a short reprieve from everyone’s eyes, from the Tree—a cocoon that hides them from the entire world as Omi stretches on top of him, bare skin sliding against Tsuzuru’s own as the fleeting kisses slowly turn into deeper ones and fingertips begin wondering south, simultaneously seeking pleasure and claiming possession.

It’s the only time Omi ever takes him right under the Tree of Life. 

Twenty eight thousand and five hundred years later, the memory of that moment resides in a feather secured within a sealed cave. Humans are one seal away to breach it completely to get to the feather; Omi and a much younger boy—Azami, is what he turns to when Omi calls out to him—holding their ground against Chikage as another, rougher-looking older blond man in glasses protects Juuza, Kazunari, and the feminine-looking green-haired boy from Hisoka’s spells, clearly simply buying them time as they work to untangle the design of the last seal’s. Tsuzuru stands by the Tree of Life and watches in horror, too far to do anything that matters, as Juuza thrusts his hand against the last seal, crackling light and magic as the seal begins to crumble.

“No,” he hisses angrily, reaches out for the threads, ignores the way they bite against his palms, and begins to weave frantically. Free Will fights him almost instantly, stabbing sharp lines into the pads of his fingers, but Tsuzuru stubbornly holds, because he can’t let this one gets changed. Humans can’t have that feather. Humans can’t have that memory. Its his—his and Omi’s and a space and time the world had never seen, and Tsuzuru doesn’t—

“No,” he grits his teeth, a thread slicing his thumb open as Free Will resists, and with a glance at the screen, Tsuzuru sees Juuza’s fingers slowly go through the seal, inches away from the feather. He wrenches the threads, stubbornly forces and weaves them into _“and the seal will not give”_ , but Free Will snaps it broken, unraveling the threads into short pieces under the drip-drip-drip blood blooming in Tsuzuru’s hands.

On the screen, Juuza’s hand closes around the feather.

“No!” Tsuzuru screams, reaches out for Kazunari’s threads and violently tugs the strings of mind trance.

Miles and miles away, within the cave, Kazunari’s hand shoots out past the seal to hold Juuza’s own and the feather within it, and Tsuzuru wills them to burst into flames with a strangled sob.

**——-o0o——-**

Azuma takes a look at him when they all come home from the battlefield, a blur of silver hair and silver robes over the silvery surface of the lake. “Tsuzuru,” he gasps, reaches out to grasp Tsuzuru’s hands and hold them close, not caring about Tsuzuru’s blood staining his silver red. “I am so sorry.”

Tsuzuru’s tears has dried for hours. His blood hasn’t. It’s still rivulets of red down his hands, seeping into the ground and dyeing the white lilies red. He stares blankly at the threads of fate abandoned by his side, at the pieces of tapestry wrecked by Free Will—a mockery of his role, his power, his wishes—and whispers, “I couldn’t kill them.”

“You were too far,” Itaru says, crouching by Azuma’s side as he inspects the broken threads. “Setting their hands on fire enough to burn the feather was already impressive enough.”

Tsuzuru closes his eyes, lips a thin line. “I didn’t want to destroy it.”

“Better than letting them have it,” Azuma assures him, gentle fingers pulling Tsuzuru’s hands open so he can inspect the wound. “Free Will is dangerous. You shouldn’t—“

Azuma’s voice peters into white noise in his ears, as Tsuzuru stares at the silvery surface of the lake, at the white leaves fluttering down onto his reflection, and thinks, _how powerless_.

_How laughable._

**——-o0o——-**

“Free Will is dangerous. You shouldn’t fight them too insistently like that.”

Tsuzuru smiles as he closes another tapestry—the part by the lower left is already trying to undo itself. “It’s not like I have any other choice.”

We need to feed the Tree. We need to keep the Tree from dying, or the entire world would end, and a terrifying, completely new one would sprout from it. Tsuzuru wonders how many millennias these phrases have been repeated.

Omi takes Tsuzuru’s hand and places a soft kiss on the angry red line where Free Will leashes out and snaps a thread against Tsuzuru’s thumb earlier. “Come with me? The whales are singing.”

The Tree of Life trills a warning. Tsuzuru looks up and sighs, because if the Tree wants him to stay, then he needs to stay. “Maybe later,” he replies, the familiar guilt when it only turns Omi’s smile against his thumb into a slight frown lies heavy in his stomach. But he curls his palm along the line of Omi’s jaw anyway and pulls him closer for a kiss.

Omi tastes like the sun. 

“When the moon is out,” he finishes the words against Omi’s lower lip, the sounds lost in the breath they share.

**——-o0o——-**

Humans are weak.

Tsuzuru’s actually half-impressed at the audacity of them to sneak past the dimensional gate and get to glimpse the Tree of Life before Masumi and Citron catch up to them. One with bright orange hair—Tenma, the other one had shouted when Masumi drops on his back—and Banri, who Tsuzuru often sees around Omi and Juuza as they fight. They’re hauled over to the dungeon instead like the rats they are, and Tsuzuru somehow finds himself following Guy down to where they are.

He hasn’t been in the dungeon for twelve thousand years. He wonders if Omi’s wings are still pinned there, majestic and massive, and yet void of power now that they had been given up willingly. 

Masumi’s standing by the gate, an annoyed look in his face as Guy and Tsuzuru pass. “Those two won’t fucking shut up,” he grouches. “I don’t want the headache.”

Sure enough, both humans apparently have low enough self-preservation instinct that they’re actually engaged in verbal arguments with, of all people, Chikage and Homare. Tasuku stands on the corner of the room, seemingly thoughtful, and on the other side Sakuya has a device out, the screen showing the dimensional gate’s status, unstable now because of the clumsy, reckless attempt to pass through.

“That Tree hasn’t done shit for thousands of years—“

“You humans can’t even comprehend the power of the Tree, much less—“

“And you do? Why can’t it stop itself from dying, then?”

“Your heads are magnificently so empty, it is a waste of time and breath trying to interrogate you.”

Guy steps in next to Chikage, and Chikage dips his head ever-so-slightly before taking a step back. That’s when Tsuzuru’s eyes meet Tenma’s, and the boy’s mouth falls open. “You!”

Tsuzuru tilts his head. “I don’t recall having met you.”

“Seriously, why are all angels assholes,” Banri mutters, but Tenma cranes his neck, strains against the chains around his limbs until they clang against the metal floor. By Sakuya’s side, Hisoka sighs and crooks a finger, and the chains jerk Tenma back against the wall with a pained yelp.

He doesn’t shut up, though. “You should understand!” he says, eyes trained to Tsuzuru and no one else. “You’re the caged one! You can only write what the Tree dictates, you can’t even leave without the Tree letting you to! Don’t you want freedom?”

Tsuzuru bristles. “Don’t be absurd,” he spits out, but before he can continue, Banri says, “He wanted that for you.”

The words are quiet, but the echo rings clear through the high ceilings. Tsuzuru’s voice dies in his throat.

“He hated that you’re bound to that goddamned Tree. Hated that all of you move and do what the Tree wills, but most of all, he hated that you couldn’t stray away from it.” Banri holds Tsuzuru’s gaze. “He wanted freedom for you.”

 _Poisonous_ , the Tree warns in the back of his mind. _Poisonous words, designed to hurt, to trap, it’s time to come back, don’t stay there—_

Tsuzuru sways. Couldn’t stop himself from forming a rejection: “He fell in love—“

Banri’s eyebrows raise so high they disappear under his ridiculously long bangs. “That’s what the legend says, huh? Was it not what the Tree wanted us to think?”

The room plunges into silence for a long second.

Tsuzuru tears away then, turning around and running back up to where the Tree calls, leaving the poison and tempting words behind, ignoring the sharp sound of his name coming in Tasuku’s voice.

He runs and runs and runs, until the comforting melody of the Tree and its lake and flowers drowns everything else echoing in his ears.

**——-o0o——-**

The next morning finds the two humans gone. So are Sakuya and Tasuku. The entire land is in uproar. 

Tsuzuru stares at the tapestry in his hands, Tasuku and Sakuya’s threads unraveled completely by the end, Free Will dancing mockingly at him in-between the threads.

**——-o0o——-**

Tsumugi comes to see him one afternoon.

“Tsuzuru-kun,” he speaks, hesitant and slightly scared, and Tsuzuru wonders if those poisonous words, too, reverberate in Tsumugi’s heart. Or maybe it’s simply the fact that Tasuku left, and Tsumugi gets to taste what Tsuzuru had once gone through. Still goes through. “Did he say he fell in love?”

Tsuzuru blinks. Tsumugi’s fingers rest around the spider lily by his feet, before his forefinger curls around the stem and snaps it off.

It turns white, like the leaves that fall above them.

“The Tree is dying,” Tsumugi says, letting the spider lily fall into the lake as he looks up to the grand canopy of colors that is the Tree of Life. “No matter how much we feed it, it’s dying. Because it’s alive, and everything that lives must, one day—“

He trails off, gaze falling to catch Tsuzuru’s own for a moment, and the shakes his head, as if he was in a trance.

“Tsuzuru-kun,” he whispers sadly. “Did he say he fell in love?”

Tsuzuru opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “He ripped off his wings for that human.” _What else can it be, but love?_ hangs silently in the air.

Tsumugi shakes his head, and turns around to leave.

None of them could find Tsumugi come morning. All that’s left in Tsuzuru’s hand is a warped tapestry—Tsumugi’s thread forcefully snapped and unraveled under his fingers.

**——-o0o——-**

Everyone visits less. The Tree grows restless.

“Not nearly enough humans,” Itaru reports one night after a grueling harvest. They both stand under the Tree, watching its branches curl and crawl over the bodies, assimilating them into the flowers, the barks, the leaves. “Tasuku is definitely sharing some of our tricks with humans.”

He doesn’t sound angry about it. Tsuzuru frowns, feels the Tree shakes in silent rage, and tells Itaru, “We have to do better.”

Itaru shrugs. “I’m sure Senpai has a trick up his sleeve. We’ll figure it out soon, don’t fret.”

But the Tree wants more, now. The Tree has had enough of the poison that’s breaking them apart, and has had enough of the pain that Free Will embeds all over Tsuzuru’s hands. So when Tsuzuru takes the threads of fate once Itaru leaves, he’s not surprised by the word whispered by the fallen leaves:

_War._

**——-o0o——-**

He weaves a great war, for the second time.

It’s an impressive, long and winding tapestry consisting of hundreds of colors, of different threads tangled together. Some threads run out in the middle, some others split badly enough Tsuzuru has to cut them off. All of his dearest friends’ threads woven together, and among the countless colors, Omi’s thread hums strongly with Free Will against his fingertip. Tsuzuru stares at it and thinks, _you’ll wreck it again. Even though I wrote this for you._

But a part of him, poisoned and rotten, hesitantly voices out: _Maybe unraveled is how it should be._

 _It’s not finished yet,_ the Tree sings. _Weave. Weave. Weave. Our stories, as it should be. Until the end. The very end._

Tsuzuru weaves.

**——-o0o——-**

Predictably, Free Will is a bitch.

No matter how much Tsuzuru tries, it unravels almost immediately as the war begins. The dimensional gate shudders violently enough to shatter the windows, raining glass into the lake surface. The Tree struggles, extending its branch to protect Tsuzuru as he continues to weave. Free Will snaps the threads off under his fingers, drawing ribbons of blood down to pool around his feet and stain the white leaves scattered among the flowers. 

The Tree wails. Screams and howls for more, more, more. It doesn’t want to die. The ground shakes fiercely, and he can hear the dying sounds of the lesser Angels as their threads run out, leaving ugly holes in the Tapestry and giving more space for Free Will to tug on loose threads, to snap them out of the harmony Tsuzuru had woven. Even if he tries to weave it back, it doesn’t matter. The threads are running out because the Tree is dying, and—

With a snap, a corner of the tapestry unravels into loose threads, and Tsuzuru’s breath catches because that’s Chikage’s threads.

He can hear Free Will positively cackles.

Tsuzuru watches, powerless, as the tapestry unravel faster—Citron’s and Guy’s by the far left side, Homare’s on the center, Azuma’s and Itaru’s down by the bottom. Then Hisoka’s, curling into a tight knot before it snaps completely, tugging loose Masumi’s thread in the tapestry along. All his efforts, the blood that drips down his fingertips, wrecked into nothing. Back into threads, cutting into his skin like those fine knives Chikage likes to play with sometimes.

The Tree howls mournfully. Tsuzuru looks up to see it snows—of white leaves and petals, disintegrating into fine white powder before they even touch the ground.

“Here! Misumi-san, it’s here!”

“Kumon, don’t get too close~ let Muku bring that here~!”

“Are—are we too late?!”

Three voices at the grand door take Tsuzuru’s attention. He turns away from the Tree, from the white flakes that spell death and the end to the flurry of life in the form of three humans heaving some sort of machinations in. Tsuzuru opens his mouth, throat parched and voice hoarse with lack of use, and calls out, “Who...?”

One of them, hair the same shade of night as Juuza’s, makes a dramatic gasp. “Is that...?! He’s alive?!”

“Kuu-chan, Tasuku-san did say he’s going to be here...”

“Yeah but everything was exploding on the way here so I thought maybe he’s—um, Misumi-san?”

The young man crouching by the machinations makes a sad noise, looks up at the Tree of Life like he’s admiring the view for a moment, and then murmurs, “I think we’re too late...”

“Then we have to get out of here,” the last boy, hair as bright as the pink rose that Tsumugi used to leave by the casket, grabs the machinations again and shuffles forward, neck craning over the device in his arms, and shouts, “Let’s get out of here!”

Tsuzuru stares, confused.

“We can’t save the Tree like this, we’re too late!” the boy yells again, heaving the device up for a better grip. “If we’re still here when it dies, the dimensional rift caused will kill us too!”

Tsuzuru knows that. And yet his feet stay rooted to the ground, like the flowers around them are the chains that bound him. Perhaps, the poisoned, rotten part of him whispers, that’s what they have always been.

Another explosion shakes the ground violently enough to throw the three humans off balance. There are shouts echoing from the hallway, and the boy with midnight hair perks up as he regains his balance, one hand holding fast to the human they called Misumi earlier. He leans back towards the hallway, and yells back, “Niichan! Over here!!”

Free Will must be howling in laughter now, because just as the very last part of the tapestry in Tsuzuru’s hands falls apart, Hyoudou Juuza appears.

Their eyes meet, and Juuza makes a noise of recognition. “ _You_.”

Tsuzuru lets go of the threads in his hands, shoulders shaking with what he thinks might be hysterics. He swallows the unhinged laugh threatening to slip past his lips. “Of course,” he mutters instead, shuffling back until his back hits the massive bark of the Tree. “Of course it’s you. At the very end. As it should be.”

Each syllable dripping bitterness. Tsuzuru doesn’t even have the energy to hate anymore.

Juuza looks at him, at the Tree, at the piles of white leaves and petals and flakes, and then asks, “What are you doing?”

Tsuzuru raises an eyebrow. “What am _I_ doing?”

“It’s dying.” Juuza points out, his voice so incredulously free of resentment, of suspicion, that Tsuzuru’s heart aches for the naivete in it. “If you stay here, you’ll die.”

Tsuzuru’s lips curve into a small smile. “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Juuza frowns. “We have time to run. There’s no need to stay and—are you giving up? When you can have your freedom, now that it’s dying?”

“Freedom for what—!“ Tsuzuru surges up, bloodied fingers clutching his robes. “For being alive to see everything I stand for was wrong? To see everyone else turning a new page while I fumble with my footings? To taste despair, again, watching him leave with you, again—“

Juuza’s face twists into confusion. “What—“

Another explosion, this time from above, followed by the groan of the ceiling caving in. The Tree is quiet now, barely alive as it bends down under grief and surrender. The humans’ voices raise in panic, a quick argument as Juuza argues for Misumi to take the younger ones to leave first. Then, almost drowned by the loud crack from the top of the Tree, is the familiar voice that tugs at Tsuzuru’s heartstring: “Juuza, go.”

Tsuzuru’s breath stops in his throat.

Omi’s presence has always been large. Tsuzuru used to think it was the wings, but now as Omi steps among the humans and cuts into their argument in a smooth motion, he knows that it was not just the wings. Perhaps it’s simply his statures, or how used he is in carrying himself the same way he does when he is in the battlefield. But he stands there, now, strong and tall among the humans, looking a bit worse for wear but still steady on his feet. Amber eyes finds Tsuzuru’s gaze for a quick second, before he turns to Juuza and speaks in low tones.

Tsuzuru looks away. He’s come to pick Juuza up, of course. Omi has made his choice, twelve thousand years ago.

“Okay,” Juuza says, loud enough to echo in this hall filled with death. “Five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” Omi agrees, and he straightens, turns his gaze to Tsuzuru, and opens his mouth.

Misumi is faster. “ _Everyone watch out!_ ”

The Tree of Life gives a thundering groan and a deafening crack—shuddering as bark split into two and one half begins falling, heavy branches tumbling down over Tsuzuru like a death sentence among the rain of petals losing their colors.

 _Oh_ , Tsuzuru thinks, almost relieved for it, except there are simultaneous shouts and panicked yells from the other side of the hall, and he sees the familiar blur of Omi’s figure dashing out towards him.

“ _No—!_ “ he blurts out, an arm outstretched in vain—

The branches fall with a deafening crash.

**——-o0o——-**

His arm is crushed between a humongous branch and the casket. He can’t feel his legs—both hidden under another huge branch once covered with forget-me-nots, but now nothing but white flakes caught on a tree bark.

“Tsuzuru? Tsuzuru!”

Omi’s look crumples into that of a heartbreak when he sees it. Tsuzuru’s confused, but half of him can’t quite grasp what it means, too busy with the rush of giddiness to have Omi again—so close, so painfully close—after the long, long twelve thousand years. He stares, wide-eyed as Omi kneels by his side, hesitant hands hovering over Tsuzuru’s body like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. Funny, because everything Tsuzuru is has always been for Omi to touch.

“Dammit—“ Omi grits out, eyes wet and words shaky. “It’s not—we were—“

As always, so awkward with words. Tsuzuru chuckles—the odd clarity that comes with death being so tangibly close settling over him, and he thinks he understands everything now.

“You were trying to save the Tree,” Tsuzuru whispers. “From itself. That’s why you needed the feathers. To free the Tree of its powers, purify it back to life. And in the process, grant us freedom.”

Omi makes a choked noise.

“They said we don’t need the Tree anymore,” Tsuzuru muses. “It sounded so arrogant, but it’s true, isn’t it? As it was, the Tree would have just wanted more and more and more, and none of us would have lived to see the end.”

Though he supposes now he wouldn’t, either. Tsuzuru exhales, settling into a smile, and asks, “You wanted freedom for me?”

Omi shakes his head. “I want you,” he chokes out, voice thready and scared, and Tsuzuru’s eyes widen. “I had you, but not all of you, and I was—I couldn’t have you like that. The Tree had a part of you that I couldn’t ever touch. I wanted—I want all of you, Tsuzuru, and for that, I have to get you free.”

Tsuzuru’s lips tremble. “I thought you fell in love.”

The wet laugh that peters out of Omi’s lips sounds prettier than the water in the lake. “I was in love with the freedom Nachi offered,” he whispers with a smile. “It was my hope. If I can get you free—the things we could _have_ , Tsuzuru—“

Twelve thousand years. Everything that Tsuzuru resents, everything that Omi keeps secret. All of those have come to a halt now, pinned under the very Tree that speaks of everything they couldn’t have. Ironically, even as it dies now, it still wouldn’t let them have their way.

“Omi-san,” he whispers, the name settling comfortably on his tongue. As if it never forgets how the syllables taste, even after twelve thousand years. “Freedom’s pretty scary.”

He lifts his free hand up and stares at it, criss-crossing scars and fresh wounds and all, thinks of how much it had hurt, trying to bend others’ Free Will under his fingers. 

Omi’s hand gently cradles his, taking it softly by his fingers. Tsuzuru aches with a wave of nostalgia as Omi presses his lips against his fingers, his breath fluttering over Tsuzuru’s knuckles. “Take it,” the words glide over an open wound, Omi no doubt tasting Tsuzuru’s blood as he speaks. “Be free, Tsuzuru.”

Tsuzuru smiles sadly. “Next time?”

“Next time,” Omi doesn’t pull away. “Come with me? The whales are singing.”

Tsuzuru thinks he can hear them—the echo of a whale cry within the ocean, the gentle vibration of Omi’s chuckle as he steers Tsuzuru deeper into the water. The sound of the moon, despairing as it has to leave the night, and the taste of sunlight in the morning as he rouses within Omi’s arms, the canopy of his wings the extent of Tsuzuru’s world for a blissful moment.

He thinks of Omi’s thread, twelve thousand years ago when he tried to see the future. The length of it, steadfastly stretching forward even beyond what he can see. 

Tsuzuru knows when the next time is. He thinks he can maybe make it worthwhile, next time.

“Let’s go, Omi-san,” he closes his eyes with a smile. “One hundred million and two thousand years from now.”

The last thing he feels before he slips into oblivion is Omi’s lips, finally, finally pressing against his own, and the silent vow etched with it: “I will find you again, Tsuzuru.”

Surely they will love each other again, next time.

One hundred million and two thousand years from now.

**——-o0o——-**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“This is the end of MANKAI Company’s All Troupe Play: Endless Eternity. Thank you for attending today’s play, please make sure that you have all your belongings before leaving—“

Sakyo’s voice still drifts out from the PA system, when the Director plants herself by the tiny nook covered by dark curtains just off to the side of the stage. She flashes her thumbs up when Tenma passes on his way back to the dressing room, and shooes Azami, Misumi and Kumon along to the dressing room faster when they try to hang back and wheedle her for her evaluation first. Although nothing, perhaps, is more embarrassing than Azuma passing by with a small, knowing chuckle.

Sakyo pauses by her on his way in, and eyebrow raised. “Everyone’s back? We should all greet the audience in the lobby.”

Ah, he knows for sure. The Director grins sheepishly. “Five minutes?”

He grunts, but relents. “Not longer,” he warns, but it’s not to her. Rather, it’s towards the nook hidden by the curtains behind her, and she makes a face at him as he steps away, presumably to hustle the kids over to the lobby for their last greetings to the audience.

Ten seconds of silence, and she shuffles carefully back, cautiously pulling the curtain to peek. “.....Tsuzuru-kun...? Omi-kun...?”

In the tiny nook that barely fits them, Omi’s back curves along the lines of Tsuzuru’s body, face buried into the crook of Tsuzuru’s neck, shoulders shaking. Tsuzuru’s hands are around him, moving up and down over his back rhythmically.

“Yes, Director,” Tsuzuru’s reply comes in a whisper. “Be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” she relaxes, and smiles. “You have five, take your time.”

The curtain flaps closed as she leaves, once again plunging both of them into complete darkness. Tsuzuru sighs, tilts his head slightly and digs his chin against Omi’s head in the process. “Omi-san?”

It takes a while, every time this play ends, for him to shed the role. Tsuzuru wonders if he’d accidentally written something too hard for Omi to handle, but Omi had wanted to do it. Had asked Tsuzuru to let him continue to portray the role. In exchange, once the play ends and he couldn’t stop shaking, Tsuzuru would pull him to a secluded nook and keep him in his arms until Omi manages to finally come out of it.

Omi takes a breath, shudders a little. “Tsuzuru—“

“I’m here,” Tsuzuru answers, tightens his arms. “It’s okay, Omi-san.”

Omi’s breath glides over Tsuzuru’s collarbone, finally a contented sigh, and Tsuzuru smiles.

“It’s past a hundred million and two thousand years after all.”

**——-o0oENDo0o——-**

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re still reading, oh my god, I am so sorry. Thank you so much for sticking with me, I might cry a little, this entire thing is so unhinged??? I feel a bit unhinged.
> 
> As always, feel free to find me on twitter under @isuilde or @michuju0322 if you just want the omitsuzu part haha


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